This is Bulbul Radio

A sparkling explosion of megasound

this is a nova of John’s sun and Paul’s star

inscribing itself in the chromosomes of your DNA

it is musical notes of the flamenco steps of Freddie’s flamboyance

and the piano riffs of Chris Martin’s mind,

into the dark alleys of Stipe’s words, and Dwight’s pain, and Sumner’s verse.

It is from the age of the T-Rex to the day we find ourselves

arriving at the Master’s gate.

It is extending your hands akimbo as you drive past the wind

through Jagger’s swagger and Bono’s vertigo

 

It is brown eyed girls in Californian hotels

OK Computer in decibels

It is morning glory on Liam’s hips,

Perching queens on Robbie’s lips,

It is personal Jesus on the Elvis pelvis

Definitely maybe sometimes always.

 

It is Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars

It is Mott The Hoople under African stars

It is Abbey Road crossing into your brain

It is Ruby Tuesday and November rain

It is Michael Hutchence in his afterglow

Kisses from roses and Quinn the Eskimo

Pet sounds made on a rubber soul

Tapestry on a glitter ball

Teen spirit and the bat out of hell

London calling the division bell

 

It is life, and how it ought to be lived

It is freedom and how it should be breathed

It is alter-egos of Bulbul’s mind

Automatic for the people’ s rhyme

Billy Shears and Desmond Jones

Rocking hearts and rolling stones

Penny Lane on the devil’s fork

And Da-n-da-da-n-da-da-n-da-da

The Only Living Boy in New York

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